Devrim Kay sat at a dingy workbench, tucked away in a corner of the Farm. He stripped and cleaned his rifle with practiced efficiency, his fingers moving on their own as his mind wandered. The sniper recalled a conversation he'd had with Eido, Mithrax-kell's daughter. Devrim had found the Scribe charming, both wise and guileless. They'd spoken at length about her vision for the House of Light as a peace broker between Eliksni and humanity. In the moment, he'd been convinced by her youthful optimism. It stirred something in him long dormant—a vision for the future beyond the day-to-day violence of his life in Trostland. He left their conversation confident that a brighter future awaited the Eliksni. But now, in the cold light of day, his cynicism reasserted itself. Even if the House of Light remained a staunch ally, he doubted the other Eliksni throughout the system would follow suit. After all, the average Vandal wasn't fighting for politics, ethics, or philosophy. They were fighting a zero-sum game of territorial control… just like he was. Besides, war was all he'd ever known. He'd grown up in this conflict; been raised by it. Without it… what was he? Devrim looked down and realized with surprise that his rifle was already reassembled. He'd completed the task without even noticing. What could anyone do against such deeply ingrained violence? He shook his head, frowned, and started again.